


A Damning Deliberation

by ReconstructWriter



Series: Revelations [3]
Category: The Order of the Stick
Genre: Especially now, Poor Lonely Monster, Redcloak's Issues, Warning: Xykon is an evil bastard, Warning: Xykon's pottymouth, Xykon Is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26731474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReconstructWriter/pseuds/ReconstructWriter
Summary: All actions have consequences. Holding your action is still an action.
Series: Revelations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857955
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	A Damning Deliberation

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Since this deals with the events of 652 to 662 there will be both spoilers and some stuff lifted from the comic itself. I tried to focus on the differences but there's still a lot of similarities and those I credit entirely to the brilliant work of Rick Burlew!

(Of course, soul splices.)

The realization hung on Redcloak's tongue. Yet he kept silent as Xykon dodged the mystery elf’s dimensional anchor. 

(“What would your brother most love?”)

A fresh wave of guilt-pain accompanied the paladin’s remembered words and the righteousness of The Plan could not fully quash it. Every fiber of his being rebelled at casting it aside. Not after so many goblins had perished, even his own brother. To do so would lay all the burden of all those lives directly upon his shoulders. It would all be his fault.

(Already your fault)

Yet, with the budding Gobbletopia, a new thought took up residence: did he have to work with Xykon?

Abandoning the lich would prove his brother right, himself wrong and put the burden of all those lives…and on a more practical matter, he never had an alternative. Epic level arcane casters were no trivial find and training one from scratch would take time he never seemed to have. As horrible a creature as Xykon was, Redcloak had no plan B to him.

Yet now time was his friend. Time to strengthen the fledgling Gobbletopia. Establish the great city and greater country. And with near a hundred thousand goblins and refugees, with more pouring in every day? Surely among them was a wizard or warlock or witch or sorcerer or some living non-human who could cast powerful arcane spells. Why not rid himself of the lich and go back to his original plan? A goblin wizard, from this new paradise for goblins?

Common sense would rear itself. Epic level liches were also no trivial encounter. Xykon had survived so many attempts on his unlife before and Redcloak was no fool to risk a direct confrontation…

Yet this mysterious elf wizard backed with a pair of powerful soul-splices, might be the sledgehammer he and Jirix needed to sneak a scalpel into Xykon. The lich was alone now. But the living caster was clearly less experienced and the lich had won against far more powerful and experienced wizards…

“Energy drain! Damnit! Why isn’t this working!”

“Bigsby’s Crushing Hand!”

(But he hadn’t had you against him. And Jirix could free the paladin. O-Chul would go after Xykon first.)

“Meteor Swarm. Hah, fire still bothers you.”

“Time Stop.”

Both Xykon and the elf looked worse for wear, cracked bone and burns equally hampering, it was now or never. Redcloak stepped up, grasped his holy symbol, grateful beyond anything of his preparations, just in case. He would have to make this count. He’d never felt so sick, so terrified, his blood rushing as though it feared being spilled, his heart trembling, his mouth dry, yet beyond all that was a fierce sort of vengeance, almost as good as conquering Azure City. At last, that damn lich would know his brother’s pain…

“Geez, can you men keep the racket down up here…” the human Mystic-Theurge was blinking back sleep but she had come prepared to cast.

(Damn.)

“Reddie, quit standing around and throw some inflict spells out there…”

16th level Cleric plus 12th-14th level under-equipped Paladin/Fighter plus elf with two soul splices…but how powerful of spells? Especially after two energy drains. It would take Jirix too many rounds to reach the paladin and tip the equation back in their favor. Until then, he would be the one alone. Nor had he a way of signaling Jirix to free the paladin without tipping off every idiot to his inevitable betrayal. “I’m scanning the elf,” Redcloak excused. “Something’s off and it’s…soul splices!”

“Like I know what the hell those are! Energy drain!”

“Something that requires concentration. Mind affecting spells, that’s what we need to focus on.”

“Hah, easy-peasy. I go to sleep with more mind-affecting spells than you prepare your whole day. Mind fog.”

The elf faltered in seconds between Xykon’s dispel and Tsukiko’s mind fog. Redcloak watched dispassionately as Xykon slammed a slab of stone on the intruder, breaking the soul splices for good. He suppressed a shudder. Had he thrown his lot the other way, he would have been target number two. Xykon looked worn and had burned several high-level spells, but he wasn’t tapped out. Not even of 9th level slots, by Redcloak’s calculations. It would have been him and a paladin in his tighty-whiteys and Jirix against an enraged epic level lich and his 14+ level lackey. It would have never worked. 

As the elf cast invisibility, Redcloak turned to Jirix, who was still gawking. “That elf’s finished.” Invisibility was the escape tactic of the desperate, tapped-out caster, “Quit gawking like this is Dead or Alive. There may be other elven insurgents. We need to search the whole castle.”

“Sir? Yes sir. What about the prisoner?” Jirix asked. 

“We need to focus on the enemies coming in, not the one we already have locked up. Round up some guards, stay in groups and check everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if that soul-spliced idiot was just a distraction. Keep in touch regularly and don’t try any heroics. I’ll check the other half of the castle.”

He didn’t dare say it aloud, though he did think: (“Here’s your third chance paladin. Don’t waste it.”)

One moment Redcloak was alone, Jirix dismissed, guards unfound. A window of opportunity. A moment of weakness. The next, warned by a keenly honed sense of danger, he looked up and saw the Paladin swooping down on him from a leap, katana, no…prison bar braced like a spear. Redcloak snatched his holy symbol, readying the first spell that came to mind but the gestures were too slow, the syllables of disintegrate too complex and the (former) prisoner too fast. His eye watered as pointy death came for it. At last, the paladin’s retribution.

The bar brushed harmlessly past his face, sliced through the chain holding his holy symbol and with a quick spin, levered the phylactery into the paladin’s calloused grasp. His disintegrate spell burst into motes of red light. The paladin easily shifted the makeshift weapon to brace against a muscled forearm for one-handed use. Redcloak grasped the empty air where his holy symbol, and Xykon’s phylactery, had resided. 

He was dead. 

“This is your chance,” Redcloak managed, hoping for once in his life a Paladin of the Sapphire Guard used something like common sense. “Go.”

“This is your chance,” the paladin countered, “Come with me.”

Redcloak gaped at the scars all over O-Chul, wondering if one of them had knocked the man’s sense loose. “What? Leave every responsibility I have? With you?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I am not leaving. Come, let us honor your brother.” And O-Chul turned back toward the main throne room. Back to Xykon. Redcloak’s plan with a paladin’s suicidal timing. The mystery elf was defeated. Redcloak had sent his best ally away in a misguided, idiotic chance to give the Paladin a break? “Madness,” he managed, all thoughts of vengeance quenched beneath a wave of common sense. “You have a metal stick and I know that underwear isn’t +25 with SR 100. And I don’t have a backup holy symbol. The chances of success—”

“—Are still better than your plan,” O-Chul retorted. 

Redcloak’s mouth flopped for all a second before he scowled. “That aura of courage has clearly addled your brains. And I’m not throwing my life away after yours.”

“Not even when it will spare those under your command?” Redcloak glowered but O-Chul matched him with the look of someone who had been willing to throw his life away…to spare his enemies. Redcloak glanced away but did not budge. “I see.” In the silence, the cleric again became aware of his defenselessness. In the presence of the freed prisoner he had tortured. He readied the only spell that might be of help. “Then, if I may request a favor, would you continue playing with Monster-San? Please?” Recloak’s concentration faltered. “I am sorry I haven’t a better chance to know you. Farewell…Redcloak.” 

His brother’s words echoed the paladin’s. Redcloak looked up, but O-Chul had already taken off down the hall. Without even a consecrated dragger. Just a metal pole. 

(Wait)

As before, he felt the word on the tip of his tongue. He left it unvoiced and headed for his backup holy symbol, putting O-Chul out of his mind. The man was dead. Foolish Paladin.

Xykon had survived. The lich had taken some hits, but not enough for Redcloak to (completely) regret his choices. He hurried forward, “Here, I’ve got my backup holy symbol.” That was when he noticed a lack of original flavor holy symbol. Had the paladin’s sacrifice not been in vain. Had he…?

“You!”

Xykon turned on him and Redcloak had never in his long life seen anyone so incandescently furious. He swore motes of hellfire burned in those eye sockets. One bony hand wrapped around his throat, hoisting him in the air. Coils of black magic roiled around them both. “You worthless piece of green shit!” Xykon shook him. “How the hell did my Fucking Phylactery get in the hands of your fucking prisoner?” 

Redcloak prepared for this question. “He…attacked me…stole it,” Redcloak gasped. There wasn’t a hint of a lie in his words, no matter what Xykon might use to detect deception.

“And you didn’t get it back? You didn’t put a drop of fucking effort to try?” The lich was snarling with rage he hadn’t had when Redcloak had threatened his Phylactery. What had happened?

(I’m not dying for you) was his first thought and that made the little worm of guilt dig deeper because he had killed his brother for Xykon…no, no, for the plan… “No…holy symbol…couldn’t stop him.” Also technically true, a caster should never get within melee range of a melee martial. Had O-Chul assaulted with lethal intent, only word of recall would have saved him. “Where…prisoner?” As wrathful as Xykon was, Redcloak expected to be directed to a bloody smear.

“GONE! That thrice-demons’-damned prisoner dropped it in the fucking sewers and popped out of here with that hell’s reject elf without a fucking trace! And now this disgusting blue cesspool's waste dragged My Fucking Phylactery into the damn sewers—” The world seemed to shake and when it came back into focus, Xykon’s face consumed Redcloak’s vision. “—or the gullet of a sea serpent or WHO THE FUCKING HELL KNOWS!”

Redcloak placated before his breath ran out. “Have minions…can find it…”

Xykon flung him aside. Redcloak hit the ground hard, driving the air from him. Ignoring the pain, he sucked in a breath. “Starting…now. I’ll *cough* give the orders.” 

Xykon loomed over him, now eerily calm for his wrath. Redcloak’s heart stuttered as true fear cut it. “Just a minute Reddy,” he said in a too-calm, too even voice. “I’ve lost my Phylactery but you…you haven’t paid the piper yet.”

Redcloak stood warily. He knew how dangerous Xykon was. Had memorized every level, every feat, every spell the lich learned, Redcloak knew it all. After creating the lich, after his first leverage failure he had studied no other undead as well as the lich. He also knew Xykon. His moods and temperament. His every emotion catalogued until one could name any situation and Redcloak would know how Xykon would react.

Redcloak knew Xykon better than he knew himself.

Bony fingers stabbed through the meat of his eye-socket, tearing at a hundred fragile nerves with exquisite agony. Xykon ruthlessly crushed his screams to pitiful noises with throttling strength. Base instinct, maddened by pain and shock, forced Redcloak to thrash and claw. His whole being centered around his eye, razor-focused on the fingers plowing like branding irons through the fragile flesh. The agony radiated from every nerve. The nauseating wrench of every fiber torn free. Each movement eliciting new, horrible sensation. The pain. The pain. Oh, Dark One please. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stopmakeitstopmakeitstop!

He could breathe again. The ground rushed up to meet him. He hit it in a crumpled heap, fighting against the instinct to claw at the screaming nerves of his eye. Eye socket. The organ itself dripped blood through the crevices of Xykon’s bony fist. “This is your Individual Idiot Tax. This is what this fiasco cost you personally. If I ever see you with more eyes than assholes I’m going to shove one in the other and give your cloak to the hobgoblin.” His hand clenched to a fist. Redcloak saw bits of flesh ooze out from between his finger bones. 

Redcloak regretted, for one moment unconsumed by agony, not trading his suicidal plan for O-Chul’s.

“Do you want to play with me? We can play candyland?”

The guards marched past, ignoring the Monster as Redcloak wished he could ignore the burning agony that wept from his eye socket. He’d bandaged it, unwilling to apply anything more lest Xykon decide to rip his brain out. Dark One, he should have taken O-Chul up on it. Well, no, that would be insane and doom both The Plan and Gobbletopia, but he’d blown his best chance of destroying Xykon. He would not get another one. He was stuck with the lich.

“Doesn’t anyone want to play? ...Please?”

Redcloak picked up his pace, he needed to hurry… “Oh, hey, Redcloak? Will you play with me? We can play Go! Mr...Mr. S-Stiffly taught it to me and it's really complicated but you’re like really smart and wise, so you’d like it right?”

“…”

“Please?”

“…Fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So 50% of my motivation for three stories was to write this one idea—where O-Chul doesn’t stab Redcloak in the eye…and Xykon rips it out instead. Because irony.


End file.
